


Enter Stage Left

by Ubinoft



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bruce Wayne Being an Asshole, Bruce Wayne being a detective, Clark being confused, M/M, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 22:18:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14578842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ubinoft/pseuds/Ubinoft
Summary: Bruce Wayne plays two parts, luckily, he's found another actor who follows the same act.Bruce meets Clark Kent after saving Superman's life from Lex Luthor and he's pieced himself a picture from all the little bits.AKA: My first Superbat fic that I wrote after a brief lapse of writing judgment.





	Enter Stage Left

**Author's Note:**

> First Superbat after years of stewing in this fandom
> 
> just let me have Superbat before DC crams more Wonderbat into the next movie.

He looks over the broken edges of his city and he sighs. Her once intimidating architecture of arches and steel is now battered and worn. He knows he’s been drowning out Fox’s explanation and lazily nodding when he cares that extra bit about where his money’s going. Despite all of the man’s brave attempts, Lucius gives in and ends the meeting, there’s no point in grabbing the CEO’s attention if he’s just going to wave him off and tell him he “trusts his abilities”. He shuffles out with a curt nod and allows the man to stew in his own mind.

Bruce feels…idle. He knows that there’s a robbery somewhere, a theft someplace, a murder down a nameless alley. Yet there he was, sitting with his breath even and his hands in his lap, tracing the outline of his city’s damage with aloof acknowledgment.

The money he’s flooding into Gotham’s rebuilding effort isn’t enough, it never would never will be, but for a moment, he can pretend the certificate Alfred framed and sits neatly on his desk from the mayor’s office can put a dent in the problem that Gotham faces every night.

He shifts slightly to his left and he can feel his ribs _scream_.

Mentally, he adds to the massive list of thing he has to add, measures to increase, people to investigate.

The Batsuit isn’t perfect, Lex’s lucky shot proved just that.

_Lex_.

Bruce moves his name to the top of his investigation list.

Lex Luthor was ruthless, he knew that now, but he was also smart.

The man could hide his sneers from the press, he could be small and insignificant in social events and he could hide weapons of mass destruction from the FBI.

Lexcorp was as shady as it was affluential, and Bruce would be a hypocrite if he said Wayne Enterprises was completely clean.

He may not be a domestic terrorist, but the government doesn’t do well with vigilantes either.

Bruce grits his teeth at the thought of Superman under Lex's kryptonite and he sees red. Lex is lucky Bruce doesn't pull the trigger cause it's been loaded since the first threat towards his teammate.

Lexcorp has been one of the crowning achievements that Metropolis prizes so much. If you didn’t mention the Pulitzer winning Daily Planet (which Bruce tries to meddle with as little as possible), the Metropolis Monarchs (which Bruce cares slightly, not exactly the most interested in sports after his event with Bane) and _Superman_.

Bruce feels a full body _shudder_ and he almost stands up to rebut that the temperature is too cold, but Lucius is long gone and his watch helpfully tells him that the temperature is 65 Fahrenheit.

He settles back into the stiff leather and he sighs a long-winded breath.

His ribs are still _killing_ him and he thinks he might actually have to get up for the painkillers in his office.

He gingerly pushes his weight off the chair and masks his pain from years of hardened experience hiding his nicks and scars from the world.

Bruce Wayne does not have scars from years of training and crime fighting, he is an air-headed, playboy that drinks away his family’s wealth and spends his endless free time ensnaring women in his charms, not meticulously working to maintain the small army of a team and definitely not bruising his knuckles on Lex Luthor’s face, giving the man a sizable black eye and some time out of the papers.

Batman does not have scars, as much as the public knows, when he stood next to the aliens and goddesses that the media has lovingly dubbed a “Justice League”, he is just as _super_ , just as _invincible_ , just as _untouchable and godly._ He’s a shadow, a cursed image, a legend come true to deter young children, not a man with a beating heart, soft flesh, and aching bones, and definitely not a part of the idle rich who till this point have drowned themselves in the privileges their ancestors have given them.

He wonders how he’s not the first to die, how he’s survived the world-ending disasters with a couple fractured bones and a new set of plans, and not in a hole six feet under, where he was just another casualty.

He wonders how his city can be so kind as to give him his life, his identity, his cause, yet be so cruel as to take most things back every night.

He wonders if Superman has to deal with such a mess in Metropolis.

Once again, Bruce sighs heavily, leaning on the wall of the corridor, a couple feet before he can reach his office.

He finds himself in the same situation over and over again. He _thinks_ about Superman, mentions his name, hears his presence in passing and his knees give out, his heart runs marathons without his body and his breath draws in. He looks upon the shining beacon many call a godsend and he wonders how the true paragon of truth and light could want to make the heavy duty effort of becoming the friend of a mortal like him.

He looks into the trusting, blindingly blue eyes and he wonders how the world, _no_ , the universe would trust him with the responsibility of working alongside the living God. How, in an endless universe with endless paths for him to take, he chooses to meddle in the affairs of a human man. Bruce wonders what he’s done, where he’s more interesting than Diana, a goddess, than J’onn, a martian, than Oliver, a mortal just like him, but easier on the mind and kinder of the heart. He wonders what he sees in the cold metal of his cowl, the growl of his voice modulator, the anger in his soul.

He opens the door to his office and catches himself before another sigh could escape him.

_There’s a reporter here._

The man stops scribbling notes on his impossibly small notepad, or maybe his hands were just big and looks up at him with a bright smile and genuine eyes.

Bruce feels inadequate in his gaze, even with the man’s ill-fitting suit and crooked tie. He quickly straightens up and plasters a drunken grin on his face, hoping the man was just here for a quote.

“Good afternoon Mr. Wayne, I’m here for your 2 o’clock interview.” _Shit_.

“Well, of course, hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long-what was it now?” Bruce glides like silk closer to his desk, knotting his hand in a tight fist to keep him from screaming at his rib’s condition.

“Clark Kent. Daily Planet-“ He looks familiar.

“That’s the one I own right?” Bruce interjects, cutting him off. He finally sits down at the opposite side of the desk, fiddling with his drawers to find the one he keeps the painkillers in.

“Indeed Mr. Wayne.” Puppy dog eyes, square jaw, gleaming smile.

“Bruce.”

“Huh?” The reporter looked as if he’s never referred to another person by their first name. Like a schoolboy who gets to call their teacher something other than Mr or Mrs.

“Call me Bruce, everyone else does.” He says airy and light. _Goddamnit, where are the painkillers?_

“O-of course M-Bruce.” Good, he’s learning.

“So, how can I help you Kent?” It’s something about him, the way his hair slightly curled, how his baggy clothes hide something that Bruce couldn’t quite see.

The gears in his head are spinning, but all he can think of is Superman. He waves the thought away almost immediately. He almost feels his throat dry up from the possibility. _Why would Superman be interviewing him at two in the afternoon? Why does Superman need a desk job? If Kent is Superman, does it mean he’s on Bruce’s payroll? More importantly, why is Bruce so obsessed with Superman all of a sudden._

No, not all of a sudden. He would be lying to himself if he didn't admit it was years of meticulous research and teamwork that got Bruce to such a point of no return.

“I’m just going to ask some questions about WayneTech if that’s alright.”

“I’m afraid if you want anything good, you’ll have to talk with Lucius about that. I can’t make heads or tails of it.” He smiles foppishly, with a slight flash of teeth and a noncommittal shrug.

“Well, of course, you can, aren’t you-“ The childish tilt of the head in question and the large, trusting eyes sparked… something inside Bruce. He shook off such a though and fumbled around for the bottle.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t deal with all that, it’s mostly Fox’s territory, I just sign the papers laid before me.” _Good, get in control._

“I’m sorry, I just thought that you would have important input on such things.” Kent bits on his lip and speaks in such a way that makes Bruce want to drop the facade and just please the man with the information he craved. _The pain was making him loopy, he shouldn’t tell the man anything substantial, and he won’t._

Bruce’s head goes into overload, how his natural cadence had the soft mid-western twang, how even when he slouched, a bit of muscle down through. This man was no _journalist_.

“Clark was it?” Bruce looks at him with a blank look that hints at contemplation or actual thought, watching how the man across from him shifted a little at the use of his name.

“Yes, that is my name.” Clark committed to a dry swallow that bobbed his Adam’s apple gently.

“Lemme tell you a little something. Off the record.” Bruce leaned over his large wooden desk, swallowing the _ache_ in his bones, to get closer to the reporter.

Clark quickly adjusted his glasses, slightly loosening his tie and staring at his knees. Bruce almost laughed out loud at how innocent the man becomes behind some spectacles and an ill-fitting suit.

“If you want a business look, ask Lucius. If you want a puff piece, which I doubt a very _capable_ man like you writes, come to a fundraiser, chat up a nice Gotham girl who’d claw your glasses off. If you want a quote on crime:” Bruce chuckled darkly. “Why don’t you hunt down the Batman?"

The billionaire watched a thin line of sweat run down the side of the reporter’s face and he had the sudden urge to wipe it off if only to touch his face. He shifted restlessly in his seat, averting his eyes and looking at his knees again.

“I’m afraid I’m of no use to you now Mr. Kent, but if you’re ever in town on a brighter day, I’d be glad to reschedule.” Bruce muffled the rattle of the pill bottle as he exited the room, pausing by Clark’s chair to slip a business card with his personal number into his jacket pocket.

“See you around Superman."

**Author's Note:**

> I plan on doing the second chapter with Clark's perspective, but I'll see if I have the commitment to make this longer.


End file.
